


You Save Me

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Country & Western, Humor, M/M, Multi, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: Peter torments Neal with country music on a stakeout. It's as cringe-inducing as Neal expects, until it isn't. After Neal hears the perfect song, he decides to swallow his pride, take a chance, and serenade Peter on karaoke night. Short, humorous, implied P/E/N.





	You Save Me

“Turn. It. Off,” Neal almost growled through gritted teeth. It wasn’t even a game, with some sort of suspense involved. The announcer had spent the last hour entranced with playing audio clips from dozens of ancient, already-played baseball games, like he was showing off a collection of dust mites of the world or something.

“And replace it with what, a public radio lecture about hidden cruelty to aphids in the ethically sourced alfalfa sprout industry?” asked Peter. “No.”

“Anything,” said Neal.

“Anything?” asked Peter.

“Yes. Anything. I won’t even complain,” promised Neal.

Peter reached forward and turned the dial. Neal thought he detected the slightest hint of an evil smile on the agent’s face.

 _But don't tell my heart_  
_My achy breaky heart_  
_I just don't think he'd understand_  
_And if you tell my heart_  
_My achy breaky heart_

Neal physically recoiled, his legs drawing back under the seat of the car. It sounded like a psychopath taunting his victim with a singsong, sickeningly catchy tune.

“What in the seven circles of hell is this?” asked Neal.

“It’s called country music,” said Peter with a little smirk. “And before you ask, yes, I actually like it. Although this song is a bit much.”

Neal gave him a sideways glare. “It’s not like I’ve never heard of the genre. It’s that I don’t _want_ to hear it. I actually value my eardrums and my intellect, unlike some people in this car.”

“What was that about not complaining?” asked Peter.

Neal refused to answer, instead listening to the intro of the next song. Catchy enough, but that would probably end when Hillbilly #2 started singing…

 _Well a man come on the 6 o'clock_ news

 _Said somebody's been shot, somebody's been abused_  
_Somebody blew up a building, somebody stole a car_  
_Somebody got away, somebody didn't get too far yeah_  
_They didn't get too far_

 _Grandpappy told my pappy, back in my day, son_  
_A man had to answer for the wicked that he_ done  
_Take all the rope in Texas find a tall oak tree,_  
_Round up all_ them _bad boys hang them high_ in _the street_  
_For all the people to see_

Neal stared at Peter. “Okay, seriously? Are you going to make me sit here and listen to hick anthems to lynch mobs? I know hardened felons who’d give this the side-eye for being too distasteful.”

He looked hard across the road at the faux carved marble columns framing the door to the house they were watching, willing someone to emerge. He was trying not to be, but couldn't help feeling a little upset that Peter would listen to this idiotic, revolting trash.

"You're better than this," said Neal. "Tell me you're better than this."

 _'Cause justice is the one thing you should always find_  
_You got to saddle up your boys, you got to draw a hard line_  
_When the gun smoke settles we'll sing a victory tune_  
_We'll all meet back at the local saloon_

 _And we'll raise up our glasses against evil forces_ singing  
_Whiskey for my men, beer for my horses_  
_Whiskey for my men, beer for my horses_

Neal flicked his hand out and turned the radio off. “No. You are _not_ making me listen to gleeful revenge fantasies ending with _getting the livestock drunk_. You’re an FBI agent! Don’t you have some sort of rule against this sort of thing?”

Peter grimaced. “Okay, I don’t like this one either. For obvious reasons. But you have to admit it’s catchy.”

“Yeah, it’s the catchiest paean to vigilantism, alcoholism, and animal cruelty I’ve ever heard, and probably only counts as hate speech in a few countries. Wonder if I could come up with a nice little ditty about getting drunk, beating my wife and backing over the dog with my tractor and have the FBI cheer it on during stakeouts because it’s ‘catchy,’” muttered Neal.

The agent had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Look, I’m not defending that song. You know that's not me. But that’s not what country is all about.”

“What is it about, then?” asked Neal. “Drinking? Corn fields? Baseball? More drinking? At least OPB is mentally stimulating on some level.”

“It’s honest,” said Peter. “It’s sentimental and fun and real. It’s not trying to be slick and varnished and perfect, unlike certain convicted felons I know. It’s people who aren’t afraid to be silly and romantic and human.”

Peter reached for the radio again. “No. Complaining.”

_I can still remember when_  
_Grandpa died and our ship came in_  
_Daddy said he left Mama and him_  
_More money than we'd ever seen_  
_Just like that, we were thousandaires_  
_Had a brand new boat and a Frigidaire_  
_And all us kids in our underwear_  
_Were jumpin' on a trampoline_

“PETER!” yowled Neal. “I’m. Going. To. Strangle. You. You are single-handedly responsible for the death of several of my very favorite brain cells.”

Peter chortled, grinning. “Okay, I admit, the song selection hasn’t been kind to me. But it’s worth it to see you squirming in your seat with your face contorting in horror.”

“Well, as long as it’s fun for you,” muttered Neal. “At least this thing doesn’t have video.”

“Oh, but it does,” said Peter, looking altogether too delighted as he reached for the screen.

“My _favorite_ brain cells, Peter.”

Peter snortled and punched Neal in the upper arm. “You need to loosen up a little. You’re the most straitlaced convicted felon on a tracking anklet ever.”

“Did _Peter Burke_ just call _me_ straitlaced?” asked Neal. “This is a dream. This is all a backward, world upside-down nightmare.”

“You’re also the whiniest one,” said Peter. “How on earth did you handle prison, if listening to country music is too much for your delicate and refined sensibilities?”

“Hey! A mobster swearing about how he’ll shoot your kneecaps out is a lot less cringe-inducing than trampoline-jumping lynch mobs on drunken horses. I’m standing by that statement.”

“Would you at least pretend to give it a fair chance?” asked Peter, sounding a little plaintive. “I’m serious. I never listen to it with other people around because they just make fun of it. But there are some really good county songs. I’m actually trying to let my hair down around you.”

Neal sighed, his resistance instantly melting. The vulnerability was rare in Peter Burke, and disarmingly adorable. He’d let the agent play him Disney songs if he asked like that. “Fine. Unleash the hair.”

Peter shuffled through tracks in the memory instead of turning the radio back on, selecting a song and sitting back.

This one was actually pretty, with a sense of the musical instead of sounding like something an angry redneck horse had pounded out after his rider had gotten him good and drunk.

 _Looking back on the memory of_  
_The dance we shared 'neath the stars above_  
_For a moment all the world was right_  
_How could I have known that you'd ever say goodbye_  
_And now I'm glad I didn't know_  
_The way it all would end the way it all would go_  
_Our lives are better left to chance_  
_I could have missed the pain_  
_But I'd have had to miss the dance_

Neal looked away, not wanting Peter to see that the song actually affected him. It was beautiful and painful, just like life. And that was somehow comforting.

What had Peter said?

It’s honest.

It was, almost searingly so.

 _Holding you I held everything_  
_For a moment wasn't I a king_  
_But if I'd only known how the king would fall_  
_Hey who's to say you know I might have changed it all_  
_And now I'm glad I didn't know_  
_The way it all would end the way it all would go_  
_Our lives are better left to chance_  
_I could have missed the pain_  
_But I'd have had to miss the dance_  
_Yes my life is better left to chance_  
_I could have missed the pain but I'd have had to miss the dance_

Neal swallowed hard when the music faded. Peter glanced at him, then quickly away again.

“So, not all drunken hicks,” said Neal quietly.

Peter reached over and squeezed Neal’s hand, and Neal returned the gesture, both men avoiding eye contact. A door opened across the street, and a man Neal didn’t recognize looked nervously both ways before slipping out.

“You know him?” asked Peter.

“Nope.”

Peter opened the door. “Stay here and watch for Granger. I’m going to follow him and get a plate if he gets in a car.”

Neal nodded, not turning the radio off as he watched Peter with one eye and the door with the other. Another song came on, and he listened to the lyrics, suddenly glad Peter wasn’t in the car with him, because he wasn’t sure he could listen to this one in the company of the agent without his cheeks burning bright red.

* * *

 

  
When Peter slipped back into the car, his eyes shot to the radio, which was still playing, and a little smile tickled his lips when he realized Neal hadn’t turned it off.

“Don’t gloat,” warned Neal. “It’s unseemly.”

“Since when have I gloated?” asked Peter.

“Since five seconds ago,” said Neal.

 _But it ain't my fault_  
No _it ain't my fault_  
_Mighta had a little fun_  
_Lotta wrong I'd done_  
_But it ain't my fault_

Neal’s interest picked up. “Now this, this I can relate to.”

“Of course you can,” muttered Peter, giving him a mock glare.

 _I got my hands up_  
_I need an alibi_  
_Find me a witness who can testify_  
_You made a mistake_  
_You got the wrong guy_  
_I'm only guilty of a damn good time_  
No _it ain't my fault_

"Yes!” said Neal, grinning and starting to nod along with the admittedly catchy beat.

“No!” retorted Peter. Neal couldn’t help noticing the agent was grinning too, and leaned forward to turn the volume up. Partly to annoy Peter, partly because it turned out some hicks could put together a decent tune when they weren’t celebrating civil and animal rights violations.

Neal started singing along, gleefully and just a little too loudly.

 _“I got my hands up_  
_I need an alibi_  
_Find me a witness who can testify_  
_You made a mistake_  
_You got the wrong guy_  
_I'm only guilty of a damn good time_  
No _it ain't my fault_  
No _it ain't my fault_  
No _it ain't my fault”_

Peter was actually laughing by the time the song ended, enjoying how much Neal was rubbing it in. “Okay, I suppose I deserved that.”

Neal gave him a satisfied nod. “When do we start the yodeling and banjo classes?”

“Right after you learn to break a bronco,” said Peter. “Then tractor-driving classes, and then you graduate to the banjo.”

“Currency homages sound easier,” said Neal.

“We lynch counterfeiters aroun’ these here parts,” drawled Peter. “An my hoss ain’t got its drink on for a good lon-”

“STOP!” said Neal. “Stop. Or I’ll introduce you to my favorite gangster rap.”

Peter arched his eyebrows. “You have favorite gangster rap? _You_?”

“I can be badass,” said Neal.

“No,” said Peter. “No, you can’t.”

“Okay, my favorite opera.”

Peter shuddered. “Truce.”

 

* * *

 

  
“Thanks,” said Neal, happily accepting a cup of coffee from El.

“Peter’s not home,” said El. “And you know it, and you’ve got your sneaky face on.”

Heat bloomed in Neal’s cheeks, and he sipped the coffee. “Um - I’m after Peter advice,” he admitted.

“I’m qualified to advise,” said El with a charming little smile.

“Um…. How does he take, uh, cheesy romantic gestures?” asked Neal. “How far could I go before he just mocks me for the whole thing?”

El chuckled. “He may not be as - adept - at the whole staging-of-romantic-scenes thing as you are. But he loves them. If it’s sincere, he’ll turn beet red, stammer, or maybe get a bit teary. But he won’t mock you, he’ll love you forever.”

“I mean _really_ cheesy,” said Neal. “Painfully, country-love-song cheesy.”

El’s face softened. “He loves you, Neal. And he won’t make fun of you.”

 

* * *

 

Peter followed El into Sid Gold’s and they slid into their seats. It was too bad Neal wasn’t with them; he was damn good at karaoke and he’d love this place. He scanned the cocktail menu the server handed them and chuckled, ordering a Texas Porch Sipper.

“Violet Siren, please,” said El. “What were you chuckling about?” she asked after they finished ordering.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Peter, enjoying the live piano accompaniment to a nervous young man singing “Rehab.” He was doing a decent job of it, really. “I introduced Neal to country music the other day on a stakeout. He was so revolted, I think his toes curled.”

El chuckled. “I can see his expressions of horror already.”

Peter applauded the nervous singer, who was all too happy to yield to….. Neal?

Neal grinned broadly and pointed right at him, and Peter’s heart skipped a beat. Neal was looking his most endearing and gorgeous and confident, the yellow and blue lighting drawing seductive patterns on his sculpted face and body.

“This one’s for Peter Burke.”

 _Every now and then I get a little lost_  
_My strings all get tangled, my wires all get crossed_  
_Every now and then I'm right up on the edge_  
_Dangling my toes out over the ledge_  
_I just thank God you're here_

 _'Cause when I'm a bullet shot out of a gun_  
_'Cause when I'm a firecracker comin' undone_  
_Or when I'm a fugitive ready to run, all wild-eyed and crazy_  
_No matter where my reckless soul takes me_  
Baby _you save me_

 _It's hard lovin' a man that's got a gypsy soul_  
_I don't know how you do it, I'm not sure how you know_  
_The perfect thing to say to save me from_ myself  
_You're the angel that believes in me like nobody else_  
_And I thank God you do_

 _'Cause when I'm a bullet shot out of a gun_  
_When I'm a firecracker coming undone_  
_When I'm a fugitive ready to run, all wild-eyed and crazy_  
_No matter where my reckless soul takes me_  
Baby _you save me_

 _I know I don't tell you nearly enough_  
_That I couldn't live one day without your love_

 _When I'm a ship tossed around on the waves_  
Up on _a highwire that's ready to break_  
_When I've had just about all I can take_  
_Baby you, baby you save me_

 _When I'm a bullet shot out of a gun_  
_When I'm a firecracker coming undone_  
_When I'm a fugitive ready to run, all wild-eyed and crazy_  
_No matter where my reckless soul takes me_  
Baby _you save me_

Peter wiped away the tears that threatened as Neal’s voice faded and their eyes met. Neal’s expression was dark and fierce and heartbreakingly sincere, the way he got when he was having one of his intensely loving moments.

“Thank you, Peter,” said Neal, handing the microphone over and coming over to their table, his head down and his gaze averted.

Peter stood and hugged him softly. “I love you too, Neal,” he whispered into Neal’s ear. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Songs: 
> 
> Achy Breaky Heart, Billy Ray Cyrus  
> Beer For My Horses, Toby Keith  
> High Life, Brad Paisley  
> The Dance, Garth Brooks  
> It Ain't My Fault, Brothers Osborne  
> You Save Me, Kenny Chesney


End file.
